Sunday, June 19, 2011

He'd say, you never end on a missed shot. And I'd stand at the free throw line - a coincidental crack in our driveway - willing a bucket to go in, so we could call it a night.

He'd bring a pen to the dinner table, folding his paper napkin into a makeshift grease board, sketching out the Xs and Os of my game. See how you can improve on this? I'd roll my eyes.

He'd embarrass me by wearing white athletic socks, pulled way up to his knees. But we'd get to the gym... and I'd watch him play pickup games, schooling these guys, decades younger than he... and I'd always leave in awe - thinking man, he can play.

And will you look at that form? Yep, still got it.

It's taken a few years to sink in. That he was teaching me, whether I knew it or not, how to succeed. On the court, yes. But more importantly, off of it.